


The Experience of Survival

by MarshmallowNerd



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slight Avengers: Endgame Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 09:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowNerd/pseuds/MarshmallowNerd
Summary: The aftermath of an alien invasion and the near end of the world is tough enough for the mind. For a tired soldier who can’t trust his own mind most days anyways, it’s a little tougher. Nights in particular are when he needs an extra reminder of what is dream versus what was reality.





	The Experience of Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick something to get me out of a low mood. Light content warning for post-traumatic stress and dissociative thoughts.

Some nightmares are better than others. That isn’t to say he prefers them, it’s just that they’re easier to deal with. Either way, Bucky is sure to be jolted awake by his own horror, heart hammering in his chest and breaths jaggedly heaving through his throat. But the aftermath in his mind isn’t as bad for some as it is for others. For instance, his memories from serving Hydra are now far enough away that he automatically knows they’re no longer real once he’s awake. That all of that is in the past. Everything about it is over and done with, and he’s made it out.

But when he dreams of things more recent, their newness makes them less solid in his already abused mind, and it becomes harder to know the dream from actual memory. Especially knowing what he does now about the existence of magic, and aliens, and even human-made technology beyond what he would have ever thought to dream about. When he startles awake from a nightmare about _the_ alien invasion, it’s all the more difficult to tell himself what was and wasn’t real when he hadn’t even been sure when those moments had happened in reality.

Bucky knows the invasion itself was real. He knows some...things from literally another world arrived in Wakanda, searching for something they shouldn’t—couldn’t have. Their leader was real, in all his bulky madness and thick, lavender skin, and a glowing gauntlet that allowed him to brush opponents aside before they could even near him. Bucky can still remember how a single beam of light from the gauntlet had been able to knock him over, had winded him so strongly that he couldn’t get up and keep fighting even though he knew he had to. He remembers watching helplessly as the mad titan strode over to Wanda, first petting her hair in patronizing praise for her use of her powers and strength in the battle thus far, only to grip her throat between his meaty fingers right after, demanding to know what she had done with the Mind Stone.

The worst part after he dreams about it now is that Wanda isn’t there. He reaches for her side of the bed from habit, flesh hand pawing at empty sheets. She’s not there for him to pull to his side and nuzzle into the back of her neck. For him to anchor himself with the realness of her scent, the warmth of her unharmed skin, or the soothing thrum of her scarlet traveling beneath her skin like a second pulse. She isn’t there to assure him it was only a dream as he recalls feeling her body in his arms as cool and stiff, the eyes unnaturally glassy as they faced the sky without actually seeing it.

He shudders at the thought, skin crawling with beads of a cold sweat. He breathes deeply to ease the suffocating knot in his chest.

She isn’t there, but she will be back. She only meant to leave for a little while, to visit her brother.

“He’s nervous,” she had giggled fondly earlier in the evening. Her eyes had been bright then, staring at her luminous phone screen. “That nurse he’s been seeing offered to have him move in with her. He doesn’t know what he wants to do.”

“You should go see him,” Bucky had suggested in response. “Help him clear his head. You have that effect on people, you know.”

“Do I?” she had asked. Not seriously, of course. She knew very well the impact she had, at least on Bucky. “Must be a witch thing.”

“Maybe,” he’d mumbled into the junction of her shoulder, pulling her further onto his lap despite the couch being plenty big enough for the two of them to sit alone. She hadn’t seemed to mind. She reached over her shoulder to play with his hair with one hand as she sent a reply to Pietro with the other. She promised to be back within a couple hours, though he knew she and her brother had a tendency to keep the other longer than intended.

Unless… _that_ had been the dream, and her dying in Wakanda was the reality. His mind is too frayed to clearly remember. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d confused the two together.

That’s the one hold his Hydra-self still has over him.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Dreams and reality never would have blurred together if he hadn’t.

He sits up in bed, balling his hands into fists full of the comforter to keep from shaking. He can still vividly feel the weight of Wanda’s body, limp in his grasp. Can still feel her hair brushing against his skin as he pressed his face into the nape of her neck, rocking her, and begging her not to leave him. He can still feel her.

As morbid as it is, he wishes he had dreamt of the actual invasion. He’s had that version of the dream before, where they both fade little by little from wounds gained while fighting the space dogs. It’s easier to tell himself it’s a dream when she stares up at him then. Glares, even, as if in accusation toward him for not doing more to save the both of them. It’s so unlike her that he knows it’s his own mind projecting his fears onto the memory, and not at all how it really happened.

But tonight was different. One minute she had been standing against the mad titan, assured the battle was already won because she had destroyed the stone, and the next, the titan was tossing her aside like a rag doll, his gauntlet glowing with inexplicable power. It happened too quickly for Wanda to conjure any of her scarlet or even to cry out. It’s hard to tell himself it was only a dream when there’s no reaction from her he can poke holes in. She was just...gone. Rendered broken and colorless in less than a second, and it’s so close to what _could_ have actually happened that gaps form in his mind between what was his imagining and what was the true memory.

It shouldn’t even matter. It’s over now.

Wanda is coming home. He knows it.

Still, he would feel better if she was here.

Bucky jumps to his feet, moving faster than the blood can reach his head. He stumbles at the splotches that subsequently fill his vision. They fade only after he walks into the vanity on the other side of the room. The jewelry littering its surface is jostled by the impact, their collective _clink_ echoed in the agitated shift of his left arm’s vibranium plates. An ache blossoms in his knee, and he grumbles something nonsensical at it. Not that it hurts, or that he’s even mad about bumping into the dresser to begin with. He just needs something else to hone in on, to funnel his attention into so he doesn’t have to think about what’s really bothering him. He tries to inch away from the offending piece of furniture, only to stop when he actually looks in the mirror there.

He looks tired. He _feels_ tired, and that’s probably the only thing keeping him from knocking the mirror over. He almost expects his own reflection to laugh at him, at his tired eyes, his mussed hair, and sweaty skin. The fearsome Winter Soldier, the stalwart White Wolf of Wakanda, reduced to a pathetic state because he _still_ can’t trust his own mind. Even the bedspread behind him has been left rumpled in the wake of his turmoil.

At least he had unintentionally nodded off on top of the bed without actually getting in it, so there isn’t that much of a mess. He can straighten it up before she gets home. She doesn’t have to know anything was amiss while she was away. He knows she worries enough as it is, both about him and her brother.

Before he does anything, though, he looks for cleaner clothes to change into. Something to help him start the night over, in a sense. However, he only winds up swapping his plain shirt and sweats for the exact same things. It doesn’t make him feel any less like a mess, so he goes into the adjoining bathroom to wash his face. As if that can do anything to clear the remnants of the nightmare from his mind. All it really accomplishes is making him feel wet and cold.

This time he avoids seeing his reflection in the mirror. Or rather, seeing himself standing there with an empty room behind him. He left the lights to the bedroom off, having relied on a few lamps from the living room to see since she left. It had been sunset then, so there had been natural light from the windows too. Now it’s late, and without sunlight, the bedroom behind him seems infinitely darker. The entire apartment feels that way at the moment. Maybe because the nightmare is still lingering at the edges of his mind, haunting him. Or maybe because it feels wrong to be in the apartment— _their_ apartment, a space meant for _them_ —without her. He knows its wrong to attach so much of his sense of home and light into one person, but alas, he has.

He remembers how he was before he knew her. He never minded sitting alone in the dark back then. It wasn’t like there were any other options when he lived in Bucharest. There was a neighbor or two that flirted with him, sure, but he had been so preoccupied with keeping his head low that he’d refused to let anyone get close. He’d had more company during his first few months in Wakanda, but had been so ashamed of himself for dragging Steve and his friends into so much trouble that once again, he just wanted to lay low. Just stay out of everyone’s way. He would wander the Wakandan palace only when he thought he would go mad from watching the same set of walls in his room, and only at night when he thought no one else would want to interact.

He can still remember when she had first approached him, apparently having fallen into the same nightly wandering habit. He remembers being surprised to hear her speak, and even more surprised to realize she was telling him she usually saw him when he was walking about. She would usually wait for him to leave a room before heading that way herself, not wanting to disturb him. On that particular night, he had been, in her words, “taking too long” in the kitchenette in their wing of the building.

“Your mind is loud,” she had said as she made herself tea. “It’s how I can usually tell where you are.”

His heart had leapt into his throat at the thought of someone else rifling through his mind without him knowing, but he was too tired to actually care about what he could do to avoid it. He hadn’t particularly cared about anything then.

“I just hear the surface of the mind,” she had continued without prompting, which only made him suspicious she was lying about not looking deeper into his thoughts. “I try not to read anyone. At least...not their thoughts.”

He thought that was fair. Relatable, even. He knew he relied on his ability to read people’s physicalities to know what to expect from them, whether to be on guard from them.

He wasn’t worried about her, though. Steve had just brought her and Wilson back from the underwater prison, and she had obviously been too distraught to try anything dangerous. Hence his surprise she was even outside the shelter of her own room, much less speaking to the same person who had caused her and Steve’s other friends to be caught by authorities in Leipzig.

“I’m sorry,” he had blurted. She startled, as if equally surprised he was interacting with her. “I mean...I know you’re here and...and you went through _that_ because of me. If I hadn’t—”

“No, no,” she shook her head, thankfully sparing him from proceeding to ramble without knowing what he even wanted to say. “You didn’t mean for it to happen. You didn’t...you didn’t volunteer to be…”

She never finished the thought. Not out loud, that is. Her eyes had glossed over as what she had left unspoken struck her anyways, her face struggling against the weight of guilt he wouldn’t know the source of until later, when she felt brave enough to tell Hydra’s unwilling prisoner how and where she had obtained her powers.

“I’m sorry,” she had said in that moment. “I shouldn’t have…”

Then she left, abandoning her tea and the honey she’d meant to mix with it. He hadn’t known what else to do but let her go. She sought him out the next night anyways to apologize for making him uncomfortable. And so began their vicious cycle of worrying they were simultaneously too pressing and too distant for the other.

He likes to think they’re better about it now, though. Better about quite a few things for that matter. At least, they’re well enough to live apart from the rest of the Avengers.

Admittedly, nights like this make him less certain of that. They remind him that his mind still isn’t completely clear despite Wanda and Princess Shuri’s best efforts to help him.

No, he knows what’s real and what wasn’t. He does. He _does_.

He just wants Wanda to be home because he misses her. The apartment feels too big with only him there.

He wanders the apartment now to keep himself awake. He reaches the opposite end without realizing it, a shake returning to his hands. He notices they’re shaking when he impulsively reaches into the bowl kept in the entryway, picking up his keys by the leg of the keychain Wanda bought. A keychain that’s supposed to resemble a flat, cartoony Captain America.

“See?” She had been grinning from ear-to-ear, proudly showing her find to Steve when he was helping them move in. “You’ll still be with us.”

Steve had feigned an unamused frown. “Very funny.”

Maybe he should call Steve. He was there, he would be able to confirm whether that memory of helping them move actually happened, or if his dream....

No. No, Steve couldn’t know about this. He already had doubts Bucky and Wanda were mentally stable enough to live outside the Avengers’ compound. And he wasn’t afraid to voice his concerns about it, either. Bucky doesn’t think he can stand to have the same argument another time.

“Neither of you have to take missions with us,” Steve will say. “It just might be better if you stay close to people who understand you.”

“We understand each other,” Bucky will insist, probably with the last of his patience. “We’re just done with that life. Every part of it.”

He wasn’t going back. Not right now. And he didn’t think Wanda wanted to go back either. The invasion had been hard on the two of them. Granted, it was hard on everyone, but surely not as intensely as Wanda. He had seen her nearly break under the pressure of having literally the entire world rely on her ability to shatter the Mind Stone in time. To overcome the physical strain overpowering such a strange entity put on her, as well as the mental strain years of being shamed and hated for using her powers had put on her. He doesn’t want her to have to go through anything like that again, not ever.

He’s fine. She’s fine. They’re both fine.

He just needs her to come home. Needs to know everything about their tiny home is where it should be.

He ventures outside, locking the door behind him. He checks the lock once, then shakes the door handle again just to be sure. Then a third time, almost compulsively. After that, he feels confident enough to leave their front terrace, taking the stairs downward at a sluggish pace once the winter air finally hits him. He shivers but continues onward, turning the keychain that actually looks very little like Steve in his hand over and over again, just for the sake of feeling productive.

His heavy steps take him to the very edge of the sidewalk that travels through their apartment complex, where he sits himself at the curb in the parking lot. Belatedly, he realizes that it’s been snowing. Snowing at a very tranquil pace, but it’s been long enough for a thin layer of the frost to coat the pavement around him. He crosses his arms as a weak defense from the chill, vainly trying to find peace in the soothing mundaneness of the little flakes’ dance to the ground. The streetlight gives them a slight glow, and it feels odd for such brightness to feel cold when he’s so used to the heated glow of Wanda’s scarlet.

He really misses her.

But she’s coming home. He just has to wait.

Another shiver fills him with regret for choosing to wait out in the snow. He hates the cold—he thinks he always did. Even before Hydra, or before falling from the train, the cold seasons always meant grief. They always meant Steve or someone was sick, or hard times were coming. He hated the idea of being frozen alive again, even when he was safe in Wakanda. Shuri had offered to put him in cryofreeze for the sake of something good, for the sake of treating his tortured mind more effectively, and yet, he’d still resented the prospect.

He remembers the night before he gave the princess his decision. Wanda had sat with him again. Actually, intentionally sat with him in their wing’s common area, because it had become something of a routine for them by then.

“This is how we kept warm in Sokovia,” she had said as she wrapped blankets from seemingly nowhere around his shoulders. He remembers how the soft fabrics had felt against his skin through the thin nightshirt, and the contrast their fluffy warmth had to the tough leather of the couch he had been sitting against. He remembers the witch’s barely-there weight as she hovered over him to pile the blankets on, and the fleeting moments of heat she managed to create by vigorously rubbing his sides beneath the pile of quilts. His flesh hand (the only one he’d had back then) gently dug into the tender skin of her hip to keep her from falling off their shared cushion.

“Who’s we?” he had asked noncommittally, still distracted by the decision he had yet to give.

“Me. Pietro. When we were living on our own. Of course, we didn’t have nice blankets like this. We just piled on jackets or whatever clothes we could find,” she elaborated, which had been his clue that the entire conversation was really just her attempt to distract him from whatever was clearly distressing him. Normally she would keep her responses short and spaced, giving him time to muster the nerve to offer his own input after enduring decades of punishment for speaking for himself.

He had hesitated before asking, wanting to keep her talking for the distraction of it, but knowing the matter was sensitive to her because of what Steve had already told him about it. “Where is your brother?”

“Seoul. Undergoing intensive treatment and physical therapy for his injuries from the Battle of Sokovia.” He remembers her smile then, recognized a nervous edge behind it despite the darkness around them. “I don’t know how the _durak_ managed to do it to himself, but he was lucky Barton knew to act at the time he did.”

“Lucky,” Bucky had mused. He realizes now that Steve and some of his friends seem to have a sort of shared knack for good timing, even in the most seemingly unpredictable situations.

When he’d offered her nothing more, Wanda had sat back. He can still feel the rush of the room’s cold air assail him from the waist down when her body was no longer hovering over him. She had been silent for a while, and he still isn’t sure if that had been because what she was about to say next was hard for her to think about, or if it had been because she was worried she would be bothering him with the matter. “Do you think he’s been there too long?”

He’d had no chance to answer before she went on, “I mean...what if they’re keeping him...confined there? Like Stark and his AI at the compound did to me? Because of the Accords?”

He remembers the roll of blankets slipping down his shoulders as he sat up, remembers apprehension bubbling in his stomach over how to comfort her.

“They want to put me into cryofreeze,” he had blabbered, seeking to use her own method of mindless prattle to distract her. He didn’t quite reach the mindless aspect. “It’s not...it won’t be the same as when...when _they_ did it, but...still.”

She didn’t seem comforted in any way. Rather, she was just as upset as before, only on his behalf now. He couldn’t think of anything to change the subject to, so he’d merely forced himself to push forward. In hindsight, it _had_ been an incredible relief to finally voice his thoughts out loud, even in such an anxiously brash way. “I don’t want to go under. I know I can trust the people here—that they’re good, and what they want is probably what’s best for everybody. I know all that, but...but I just...I know it’s going to be hard too, y’know? I don’t...I don’t trust myself to know it’s different this time. I know now, but when I actually go in there...”

They had both stewed in silence after that, him mentally debating with himself if another, subconscious reason he was opposed to the idea was because he felt like he would be leaving her alone. He hadn’t wanted to do that to her, especially after learning just how long she’d been separated from her twin, the only person she believed she could wholeheartedly trust, and why. Meanwhile, she had been playing with her fingers, even though she’d had no rings to wear.

His enhanced hearing had picked up the slight increase of her breaths when a particular thought crossed her mind. He’d noticed a minute tremble reach her hands as she stared at them, making the suggestion aloud on an equally shaky voice. “What if...what if someone else worked on your head? Someone who could...access the problems directly?”

He’d known exactly what she was asking, and yet still so dumbly asked, “What?”

“I know it’s not…” She had inched backwards, curling in on herself with her hands pressed tight against her chest. Her English gradually became worse, smothered by the accent of her homeland. “I am probably not more trustworthy than the princess’s technology. I haven’t even tried to use my—that is, it has not been since the, um...the prison.” She swallowed uncomfortably at the memory there, and he nearly declined the offer just to save her the pain. “But I don’t want...if you are worried, you should have other options. I shouldn’t...I mean, if you are brave enough to try what scares you, then I should...”

In spite of her best attempts to hide it, an eerie red had flared brightly under the skin of her hands. It only shone brighter as she inhaled deeply, as if she was trying to calm herself despite the psionic energy within her betraying how poorly she was actually accomplishing it. “You deserve better.”

He didn’t know if she meant a better method of treatment than cryofreeze or a better alternative than what she was offering, given all of her own anxiety surrounding it. He still doesn’t know. He never thought to ask, being too stunned she was even considering using her powers again, much less for his sake. Especially after being punished as brutally as she had been for simply having them at the Raft prison. He knew how hard it was to undo that kind of trauma that becomes associated with a part of one’s self (in his case, his whole self).

He crawled towards her until there was nearly no space between them. He was close enough to feel the warmth of her body again, made slightly hotter by the glowing scarlet energy in her hands and wrists. He could even feel the small bursts of her nervous breaths against his hand as he raised it to her face, moving at an uncertain pace to cradle her cheek and guide her gaze towards him. To pull her away from her thoughts, in a way, and look at him instead.

“You try so hard to understand,” he whispered. “To help me through this. That’s so much more than someone like me will ever deserve.”

She made a distressed sound. She does that, he’s noticed, whenever he talks about what he deserves—or more, does not deserve—because of the things he did when he wasn’t entirely control of himself.

He tried to remedy upsetting her by bringing his free hand to the other side of her face, rubbing his thumbs along the apple of each cheek. For a split second, he merely reveled in the pliant softness of skin he’d never been brave enough to touch before, to potentially corrupt with the calloused darkness embedded in his own. He reveled in the trust she allotted him with the slight tilt of her head into his touch, completely unafraid despite knowing the nature of what his hands had done. She even urged him closer—at least he thinks that’s what she meant when her own hands came to wrap around his wrists, moving with him as he dared to lean closer, her touch sliding down his arms to squeeze his biceps when his lips found hers.

There was no trace of red in her skin by then, aside from the natural heat of inexperienced shyness blooming in her cheeks. It had been so long since he had kissed anyone, it felt like a first time for him too. _Their_ first time. In all honesty, his history of torture and mental abuse had left him believing he was averse to physical contact of any sort, but that moment highlighted just how much he actually craved it, was starving for the affection. Especially like this, so calm and unhurried and gentle and—

And...not real.

He remembers it now. _Really_ remembers it. He hadn’t been brave enough to kiss her then. He hadn’t known he wanted to. He didn’t even have two arms to properly hold her with. That version of the night had only been a reoccurring dream he’d started to have after her work on his mind began. The first time he’d experienced it had been quite a wake-up call, something to make him finally admit to himself he was developing strong feelings for her.

But he hadn’t the nerve to act on those feelings. Not until it was too late, and she’d left Wakanda to follow Steve and the other Avengers around the world to carry out rogue missions in secret. It had taken a whole year for him to develop the mental fortitude to go after them, after _her_ , and by then, he had developed all new anxieties about telling her about his feelings. Namely about her own, and how her feelings towards him could have changed in the extended absence from each other.

It was in Edinburgh. That’s where he found her again. Steve had done some meddling so they were alone together, and that’s when it had simply come out.

“James?” She had sat up straighter on the edge of the bed in a nameless little hotel’s room. “Do you love me?”

Even then, he had tried to evade his feelings. Had tried to evade telling her even though she seemed to have figured it out. “Do you love me?”

The absence _had_ changed her somewhat. It made her more sure of herself, made her bolder. So, she had shifted to sit on her knees on the bed, thus making herself nearly the same height as him while he was still standing.

“Do _you_ love _me_?” she repeated, tone firm, allowing less room for his deflections.

He remembers fear gnawing at his chest, a fear unlike any he’d had to face for two years before then. He remembers nervously playing with his hands the same way she had a year and half before, in Wakanda.

Then finally, “...yeah. I do.”

Looking back now, he’s grateful he told her at that moment. If he had not then, he likely would have never. He might not have even had a chance, for a few days later they would be hunting the Mind Stone, then become hunted themselves until they reached their old shelter in Wakanda, and learned she had to destroy the stone if they were to stand any chance of defeating the incoming titan and his legion.

He knows that was real. Edinburgh, and his final confrontation of his feelings, and their actual first kiss. All of it had happened amidst a twisted mixture of apprehension and relief so intense, he knows his mind couldn’t have conjured it up alone, from anything other than reality.

The invasion, however, is different. The feeling of being in battle, of facing unknown forces is something his mind has become too accustomed to. It’s easier for memories of the various fights he’s been in to become lumped together, and the emotions during them to blend until he isn’t sure which battle spawned a sense of victory or loss in his heart.

His nightmare makes the loss version of the Battle of Wakanda feel fresher in his mind, so much more vivid and realistic. It doesn’t help that he’s waiting for reassurance outside, in the freezing cold. He hates the cold. Always has, likely always will. He hates it, hates the discomfort it brings him, hates the awful memories it prompts his mind to recall. Most of all, he hates that hatred it brings out in him. That negativity only feeds into his naturalized cynicism, makes it easier to convince himself that the worst case scenarios his mind conjures up are reality. That he’s waiting for nothing, that he’s here because a part of him simply wants to live in a delusion of independence and sweet company he doesn’t actually have. His time in Hydra certainly taught him the power of delusions. How the power of wishes and dreams for rescue from a bleak reality can become convincing, only to be shattered by some sort of painful reminder.

It occurs to him that his mind is right back to its fragmented state before meeting Wanda. He’s only traded falling from a train in the mountains for an alien invasion in Wakanda. Traded a wish for rescue from Steve to wishing for Wanda to come home to him. And as much as he trusts Wanda to come home, he has to remember, he once trusted Steve to come for him too.

He would rather freeze to death here than go through another several decades in a vicious circle of unfulfilled longing.

He waits a while longer, daring to hope this is different. That she’s still real. He just needs to wait a little while more for her to come home.

He isn’t sure how long it’s been when a car finally pulls into their lot. The first he’s seen since he came outside. It stops a fair distance from him to avoid the patch of ice that’s gathered in the parking lot. Someone emerges from the passenger side, bundled up in a long black coat and thick scarf. As soon as they shut the door behind them, they reach into the window to offer some last words to their driver. Due to his enhanced senses, Bucky is able to pick up laughter and teasing banter exchanged between them. A few last playful words spoken in foreign tongues before she steps back with a final pat on the car door as her dismissal. The car turns to leave only after she’s walked halfway to Bucky’s building, both of them treading carefully slow on the ice.

Her pace becomes even slower when she seems to notice someone waiting on the curb in front of her building, then comes to a complete stop when she’s close enough to recognize him through the sheet of snow still descending around them.

“James?” she asks in a breathy voice, sounding incredulous. Then the disbelief hardens into an almost accusatory tone. “James! _Bozhe moi,_ what are you doing out here?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t do anything, really, except stare up at her and allow his tortured mind to take in that it’s her. He needs a moment to fully recognize her face, and her jacket, and her form. She steps directly in front of the beam of a nearby streetlight, giving her a bright angel-like outline that briefly makes him wonder if he’s dreaming again.

Wanda takes another step towards him, and another so that she can be close enough to touch his flesh arm. She reels back with a wince. “You’re cold as ice! Are you trying to catch your death?”

His brain kicks back into gear at the sound of upset in her voice. He doesn’t have an excuse ready to make this at least look better, so he just mumbles guiltily, “Wanted to wait for you.”

“Outside? Without your coat? What—?”

She doesn’t finish, and he averts his gaze to her shoes, suddenly feeling so foolish for doing this.

It’s silent for a couple of heartbeats as she figures out what happened. Of course she does.

“James,” she says, voice softer now. “Come on, let’s get inside. It’s cold.”

She loops an arm around the bend of his flesh one, gently tugging him upward. His numbed resolve nearly crumbles at the sight of her hands glowing scarlet, trying so hard to get him warm. It isn’t until he’s standing that he realizes he’s shaking.

“Come on,” she urges. “You’re alright.”

“Was waiting,” spills out of him. “Had to make sure you came home.”

“I’m home.” She keeps one arm looped with his, brushes some of his hair from his face with the free hand. Her fingers come away with snow that rapidly melts at her glowing touch. “I made it home. Will you come inside with me? Please? I’m cold.”

He nods. He can’t deny anything meant for her wellbeing.

Wanda pulls his shivering bulk with her all the way upstairs, using her key to get into their apartment even though his is hanging from his metal fingers. It’s not until they’re inside, and he watches her turn the lock behind her that he accepts that she’s home. That she’s actually here, she’s OK, and it’s OK for him to relax.

She takes off her coat and scarf right there by the door, unceremoniously draping them over the end table that houses the silver bowl where she drops off both of their key sets.

“How long were you out there?” she asks to the open air, moving around their apartment to gather spare blankets left on the couch and in the storage closet.

He doesn’t answer her question because he honestly doesn’t know.

When she comes back, she stands right in front of him. With some help from him, she works off his snow-touched shirt before draping at least three layers of quilts over his shoulders, promptly tucking herself into the thick cocoon with him. Little wisps of scarlet hiss and crackle into life, holding the blankets around them while her hands work on gently rubbing up and down his sides.

“You’re so cold,” she murmurs worriedly, bordering on poorly-restrained panic. Her gentle pressing becomes a little more insistent, more vigorous. She presses impossibly close to him, even wraps her legs around his as much as she can while still standing. Her body is so warm, so undeniably real. At some point, her hands stop at his waist to give a slight squeeze that brings him wholly to her, to this place. To this reality. “You can’t do things like that. It’s too cold to be waiting outside, Bucky.”

The sound of the nickname coming from her yanks the air out of his lungs. She’s the only one who doesn’t call him Bucky. He’s always been her James, always. Sometimes he’ll be her Sergeant if she feels like teasing him. But Bucky to her means he’s in trouble, that he’s made her feel like she means no better to him than anyone else.

He shouldn’t have done this. It was stupid, so stupid.

“Sorry,” he rasps, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. “I...I missed you. Wanted to see you come home.”

“You’re blue right here.” She rubs his shoulder, her touch barely there as her fingers skim the seam between his metal limb and flesh. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head, tries to wrap his arms around her. “I don’t feel it. S’okay.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. With a frown, she pulls away from his hold. She steps away from their blanket cocoon altogether, steps away from _him_ and for a burning second he panics. He thinks he’s gone too far in upsetting her, that it’s become too much for her. _He’s_ too much.

He’s brought out of his head a heartbeat later, by her gentle tugs on the edge of one of the blankets around his shoulders. “Come on?” she says, more as a question than a command. Ever mindful of the complex relationship he has with his own free will.

He follows because he wants to. He wants to.

She guides him to the bedroom, has him sit on the end of the bed. She doesn’t acknowledge the state of the bed, his side of the comforter rumpled and nearly falling off the edge of the mattress. He knows there’s no way to hide it from her now, knows there’s no point anymore regardless. She already knows something happened to him while she wasn’t there. Still, he fidgets anxiously with his fingers about it, silently berating himself for not doing more to cover up the tracks of his demons.

Wanda carefully slides the blankets from his shoulders, rubbing his arms for warmth a few more times before finding a clean shirt for him and pulling it over his head. After she does, she leaves his side to change into more comfortable clothing of her own.

“Do you want to lay back?” she asks as she tugs her jeans off.

He shakes his head, though she doesn’t see it while she’s facing the wardrobe, stepping into pajama shorts. “Not really tired anymore,” he mumbles honestly.

She leaves the room for a moment, but he can see her shadow rise on the wall opposite where the thermostat sits. The air shifts almost immediately, the scent of something burning reaching his nose as the heater kicks into action. When Wanda comes back, she turns off the hall light and turns on the lamp at the vanity as she does. The latter outlines her in another ethereal glow as she approaches the bed, standing between his legs. He sags into her touch when her arms wrap around him, his weary sigh betraying his previous words.

“What happened?” the witch whispers. Fingernails gently scrape his scalp, combing through his hair at a steady pace. “You said you were OK. You told me to—”

“I know, I know.” He nuzzles her stomach, tries to hide his shame. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just sort of...I’m sorry. I know I messed up the bed.”

She knows he’s avoiding the answer she’s looking for. She pulls back just enough to hold his face between her hands, bringing his gaze up to look at her. “The bed is fine. I’m asking about _you_. What happened?”

He swallows, feeling an apprehensive knot has formed in his throat. He knows he should tell her. He can tell her anything. If she could step in and out of his battered mind regularly for months while they were staying in Wakanda, and still find good and love in him afterwards, then she can handle anything from him.

But he’s selfish. He doesn’t want to think about the bad dreams any more than he has to, especially the ones involving her. A part of him deep down is still afraid _this_ is the dream, and questioning anything will ruin it.

Wanda is patient, though, as he builds up the nerve. She leans down as she waits, kissing the seam along his metal arm where she had said his skin was blue. There’s a scar on his chest near there where an alien dog clawed him in Wakanda, and she kisses along that too. Almost like she already knows.

“Got to thinking about Wakanda,” he admits at last. “About the invasion, and...and if you had died.”

“From the dogs?”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t elaborate further than that. There aren’t really many alternatives to take from there anyways.

“It felt real,” is all he manages. His throat feels tight because part of the nightmare _still_ feels real. He reaches out for physical assurance that it wasn’t, that she’s here, and he squeezes the soft, unharmed skin of her waist beneath the cotton hem of her (his, actually) shirt.

“I’m here, James,” she promises, stroking his hair a few more times before kissing his head. “I’m here. Just tell me what happened.”

His hold on her becomes a little firmer. A little more insecure. He tries to hide that by tenderly kneading the skin of her waist as he pulls her closer.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he repeats, only to stop short before continuing. He’s ashamed of himself for falling apart because she’s right. He told her to go, that he was alright. Doing this now makes him seem—makes him _feel_ dishonest about his state, something she worries about enough as it is.

He doesn’t want her to worry. He wants her to be able to visit her brother and then come home without a care in the world. He wants to see her smile.

But instead, she keeps threading her fingers through his hair, giving the ends little insistent tugs after he goes on too long without telling her the whole story of how he nearly fell apart while she wasn’t there. _Because_ she wasn’t there.

He forces himself to speak because he knows at this point, the longer he doesn’t, the more her own anxiety will grow. “When I woke up, you weren’t here, so I thought...I couldn’t think, I—I couldn’t tell what was real.”

She watches the honesty on his face, brows drawn together in sadness. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he insists immediately. “Don’t be. You didn’t do nothing wrong, pretty witch.”

The corners of her mouth twitch upward at the pet name, at him sounding more like himself. There’s relief, but sorrow is still there too. Her hands slip free of his hair as she steps back, fingers fidgeting with each other the way they do when she’s self-conscious. “Do you want me to help?”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t find another way to rely on her for his own benefit.

But there’s no denying that he’s still rattled by the demons in his head. The disorientation over what they fed him versus what he consciously knows to be real isn’t going to leave soon. As miserable as that is, it’s the knowledge that Wanda’s powers will make her inadvertently absorb that confusion for herself that finally sways him towards agreement.

“Please,” he whimpers.

She gives his hair a few more final strokes before going to sit beside him on the bed. She coaxes him to lie down, her crossed legs forming the perfect nest for his head when he does. For a few seconds, she lets him simply lay there, her fingertips caressing his unshaven jaw. “You’re sure you want this?” she asks.

He nods. They’ve done this over a dozen times now, but he appreciates that she still takes every precaution she can before delving into his mind. That she still reminds him it’s his choice now. And he trusts her. He does.

Consent given, she twitches her fingers where they hover mere inches from his face. Tiny wisps of scarlet materialize in the air around her fingertips, twisting into a knot suspended in the air between her palm and his forehead. He closes his eyes as he feels tendrils of the ethereal energy weave themselves into his hair, much like the witch’s actual fingers had mere moments ago. He trusts her to be kind to his mind, he does. But seventy-something years of feeling others force their way and their will into his brain has left him with an innate dread toward the feeling at first.

Then her scarlet actually settles into place, and he can feel the same loving, yet concerned aura to it that had been in Wanda’s touch when she had guided him back into their home, when she had tried to rub warmth back into his body. That extra closeness to her, to what she’s feeling is comforting on its own, humming on the very edges of his skull like a balm to the ache that was forming there.

The scarlet waits— _she_ waits—for him to bring the thoughts he wants her to see to the forefront of his mind, refusing to dive deeper unless he explicitly asks her to. Not wanting to bother her with this for too long, he only draws attention to the nightmare he just had, what he saw and what he remembers actually happening in the memory it’s based on. He presents the imagery to her, trusting her to merely manipulate it so he can live with it more easily. He trusts she wouldn’t be so cruel as to rip memories from him, no matter how bad, because she knows it would remind him too much of _them_.

True to their system, she takes only what he offers her. Sharpens the imagery of events that truly happened and twists that of those that didn’t. Makes the unreal more faded, like a memory of something he dreamed of years ago as opposed to just now. There’s no reaction from her—at least, none that he can feel—even as she finds images of herself, helpless and flailing in the mad titan’s grip, or lying limp and colorless as he sobs into her hair. He does feel some of his grief from the moment lessen, as if she’s taking it for herself to bear instead of him.

That’s when he knows to make her stop.

His vision is still swimming with the images of his mind, watching them sharpen or age in mere seconds, when he outstretches a hand in the rough direction he recalls her being. He finds her wrist with an assassin’s precision, lightly wrapping his flesh fingers around it. “I’m OK now, sweetheart. Thank you.”

As he thanks her, he can feel the foreign presence in his mind recede, bringing his mind and his vision back to the present. Then he tries, “Sorry to make you—”

“Don’t.”

She adds, “Please,” as if worried the command sounds too firm, too much like one of his former handlers. She rests a hand on his metal shoulder, tracing the seam with a carefulness that makes him shudder. “You’re sure you didn’t hurt yourself?”

“No. I’m OK,” he swears, turning his head to press a kiss to her stomach for emphasis. Then he gives another to emphasize his thanks for her helping him.

“Do you want to lay back now?”

“Sure,” he says, more so because he thinks she’s tired rather than he wants to. He only now notices the clock on the nightstand behind her, informing him that it’s half past midnight, meaning she was helping her brother through whatever he needed for a little over four hours before coming to deal with this at home.

She didn’t need this. He should have been better. For her, he should be better.

“James?” she frets when he doesn’t move for a while.

“Yeah,” is all he says before sitting up, stealing a brief kiss to her thigh where the skin is exposed beneath her silk shorts.

He gets up, fixing the bed covers and sheets for a self-conscious moment before slipping underneath them. Wanda turns off the lamp light before she joins him on her side. As helpful as her scarlet had been to his unsettled mind, nothing is more assuring to him than finally having her lying comfortably at his side, her body warmth a tangible presence for him to hold onto when he needs to.

He refrains from holding her right now, though. He still feels as though she’s upset with him, distressed by finding him outside in the cold, suffering alone in silence. He rolls onto his side to be wholly facing her as he tries again to apologize. “I am sorry, pretty witch.”

She doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she’s watching the door where it’s been left open directly across from them. She’s propped up against the bed pillows like a queen on her throne. Or maybe a guard, in position to monitor any threats that may come their way. That may come to threaten him. “For what?”

Even with her gaze elsewhere, he shies away from her, trying to seem more invested in how the corner of the pillowcase beneath him feels between his metal fingers. “Because...because I still get so confused. I don’t know why I still...I just lose it sometimes. I don’t know what’s what, and when you have to come home to that…”

She doesn’t let him finish, tenderly shushing the rising anxiety in his voice. She even rolls over to trail her fingers down his scruff-covered jaw, stopping at his chin to gently tilt his head up and make him properly look at her. She probably wants to anchor him, to remind him that she’s there for him, but having to face her in all her loving concern only makes him feel guiltier.

“Is it ever too much?” he wonders. “When am I too much for you?”

She surprises him with how quickly she leans forward, framing his face between her hands as if worried he’ll disappear, and kisses him until he’s breathless.

“Never. Not ever,” she says against his lips, the frightened tremble in her voice rattling his heart. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry if I made you feel like I was—”

“No, no, sweetheart.” He shouldn’t have asked. He should have known better, should have remembered she only ever loves with her all because so few of her loved ones are still with her. He should have known better. “I just worry—I know it can be a lot sometimes, especially when I was supposed to be getting better.”

“You don’t have to be anything other than what you are,” she insists, scooting down the bed to lie at eye-level with him. “And if that means you’re not OK, then that’s OK. I just...I wish you understood that. It’s OK, and it’s OK to need help. Even if…”

She trails off, breath shuddering uneasily. Her previous confidence has suddenly abandoned her, pulling her back to that version of herself that couldn’t speak to him unless she was watching her fingers fidget instead of facing him. “Even if it means we have to live at the compound again—”

He nearly says ‘no’ sheerly from instinct. “Wanda—”

“Steve says his offer still stands,” she says suddenly, as if she thinks he’ll find Steve’s word more credible than her own. “He told me today, while I was over there. And if it is easier on your mind, maybe we should—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts as gently as he can. “I can’t do that to you. To either of us. If we go back there, we’re eventually just going to wind up back where we started, following the others when they leave for missions. And I…I don’t want that anymore.”

He doesn’t want her to feel obligated to a life that demands so much of her. Doesn’t want her to face the kind of pressure she’d had during the invasion of Wakanda.

Wanda doesn’t seem comforted in any way. In fact, despite the darkness of the room around them, he can see the gleam of unshed tears coat her eyes. “But I want you to feel better,” she insists. “Actually start feeling better. I don’t think I’m enough to help you anymore. You shouldn’t have to wait on me alone. You shouldn’t have to feel so lost—so alone.”

“It was fine. I just needed to know you were OK.”

“But you didn’t think to call me. If you had listened to my voice, maybe it would have been different, but instead you...you can’t just—you can’t wait out in the snow, James.”

“If we go back to that life…” As faded as it is now, his nightmare still lingers in his mind. Particularly the horror and devastating grief he had felt when it left him unable to remember if she was truly alive or not. He can’t feed his traitorous mind more dangerous memories to manipulate him with. Or worse, give fate an opportunity to make one of those nightmares a reality. “If anything happens to you because of that job—”

“And if something happens to you?” the witch demands, her voice a hysterical fusion of indignation and sadness. “You think I don’t worry about that—that I’m not terrified something else will happen that haunts you? Or makes your mind feel more confused? Or—or what would happen to you if I don’t make it home for whatever reason? You think I can’t feel your worry—that I don’t worry myself? If anything happens to _you_ …”

Her eyes gloss over with fear of her own thought before she kisses him breathless again. Her kisses are usually solace to him, a form of coming home, but now he can taste her desperation through them, and her heartache, and it’s nearly unbearable. He can’t even stand it when she nuzzles her nose against his jaw afterward. It’s her version of hiding from him, as if not seeing her face means he can’t hear her breath hitch with the beginnings of a sob.

“My James…I need to know you’re OK. That you have more than just me for clarity. That you’re still in contact with Steve, or any of the others when you need the help while I’m not there.”

His arms wind around her, pulling her impossibly close as her pent-up frustrations and worries pour out of her at last. When her crying lessens, he speaks again. “I just don’t want to lose you. The next time some strange monster or magic thing comes along...”

“You won’t. I promise. And even if something does come, it won’t be any help to me if you’ve run yourself ragged in the meantime.”

“I know.”

“Just…” She pauses to take a deep breath, to regather herself. She looks up at him, no longer willing to hide even though there are obvious tears sitting on her cheeks. “Promise me you’ll be better about seeking help when you need it. The moment you need it. Even if I’m not at home.”

“I promise. I’ll be better. At least, about talking to you and Stevie.” While forcing himself to bear a light-hearted smirk, he adds, “You two always know best, after all.”

“Damn right,” she replies without missing a beat, and he chuckles a little more sincerely at the line he knows was stolen from Steve. She turns serious again when she continues, pushing some of his hair behind his ear. “You’ll never be too much, my James. I just want you to be safe. Even if it’s from yourself.”

“I know. I feel the same about you.” His voice sounds oddly soft to his own ears, like it’s a precious secret between the two of them alone.

Her hand lingers by his face, thumb sweeping over his cheek. “My James…” she says wistfully. And he is hers. She reminds him constantly that he doesn’t belong to anyone, he never did, but he’s hers. He belongs to her because he wants to.

He turns his face to press a short series of kisses into her palm. “I love you, pretty witch.”

“I love you too, _soldat.”_

“Please, tell me you’re real.”

“I’m real. We both made it home. I’m here, and you’re here, and you are an idiot for sitting out in the snow.”

He can’t help but smile, albeit with guilt still. “Wasn’t so bad. I’ve been in worse colds before.”

Wanda makes a distressed sound at that, so he kisses the bridge of her nose in apology. “I am sorry for worrying you, sweetheart.”

“You better be,” she grumbles. She curls closer against him, this time likely hiding how tired she is as she nuzzles her nose into his chest.

Bucky runs his fingers up and down her back, seeking to lull her into the sleep she needs. “I’m OK now,” he assures one last time. “I promise.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” She reaches up to pull the arm around her down, lacing her fingers with his vibranium ones and holding them close to her chest.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.” She’s sounding closer to sleep with every word now. “And because I love you, you’re not allowed to go outside all day tomorrow.”

He smiles into her hair, not totally opposed to that thought when he knows she’ll be with him like this the whole time, warm and safe and like home. “Suppose I deserve that.”

“ _Durak_.”

“ _Lyubov moya_ ,” he teases back. He kisses her hair, at first simply because she’s so close. Then he ducks his head to pepper kisses over her face. She grumbles at first, weakly pushing at his chest and scrunching her nose adorably.

Her protests aren’t sincere, he knows. He can tell when she returns the kiss left on her lips, humming in content. The sound reverberates through his skin, settling into his bones with mutual pleasure. She makes another sound, a tiny squeal of surprise, as he rolls them over, hugging her to his chest and not once breaking the final kiss goodnight. Her entire weight settles over him, given that she’s probably too tired to worry about keeping it off.

He’s glad he can feel her, though. Can feel her indisputably whole and warm and real over him, the thrum of unshed blood and undisturbed scarlet alike pulsing beneath her skin. She’s here, his favorite witch. He has her, he has a home. And for the first time in over seventy years, their reality is better than his dreams.


End file.
